


Rebel Rebel

by nat_scribbles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Contest Entry, Drug Addiction, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Punklock, Recreational Drug Use, Tattoos, Teenlock, Tumblr: fuckyeahteenlock, Unilock, fuckyeahteenlock punklock contest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:53:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nat_scribbles/pseuds/nat_scribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow John is always the one that has to take care of the idiot that has passed out at parties. This time, he meets a tall, dark stranger in the bathroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my lovely betas: hisbespokesociopath and Travellingthestars (this would have been impossible without her sass)
> 
> As always, the characters aren't mine, I'm just having fun with them, and English isn't my first language, please excuse any mistakes.
> 
> I hope you like it!

“Fuck this!” John cursed, slumping onto the soggy grass with a very drunk Mike Stamford on top of him. He managed to move from beneath him and roll him into the safety position before sprawling back on the ground, panting. There was no way they were making it back to their flat with his friend in such a state.

 

“Oi! Watson!” someone yelled from the entrance, presumably Bill Murray from the tone of his voice. John could feel the beat of the bass in his body from the open door. “We need your help over here!”

 

“I’m not a bloody doctor yet!” he yelled back, scowling. It pissed him off when people assumed he would always know what to do in emergency situations. He knew how to call 999 and perform CPR if it came to it, but that was about it. Second years didn’t see much action; corpses didn’t tend to go into cardiac arrest.

 

“Tell Stamford to come then!” John groaned and stood up, wobbling a bit; he wasn’t exactly sober and carrying his rather robust friend out of the house hadn’t been an easy job. He turned towards Mike, who was mumbling incoherencies into the grass and sighed; he was in no condition to help. “He’s fucking wasted!” John called as he stood up to make his way towards the huge building slowly, trying and failing to walk in anything which resembled a straight line. Then he followed Murray into the house.

 

The music was everywhere, surrounding him, and it seemed impossible to walk without bumping into three different people with each step, making it difficult to stay behind his friend. He wrinkled his nose as the smell of smoke, sweat, and stale beer enveloped him. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he had tasted the fresh night air outside, he could barely stand it. He didn’t know whether to thank or kill the girls wearing too much perfume that brushed past him, making him dizzy.

 

Murray headed upstairs and opened a door at the end of the corridor before grabbing John and shoving him inside. “Bill, what the…?” the blonde said as he stumbled into the room, but the door closed behind him before he could finish the sentence. John scowled and blindly tried to find either the door or a light switch, cursing when he was unsuccessful.

 

Another door opened behind him and cast a wide strip of light into the bedroom. “Are you the med student?” a deep voice asked. John turned around, squinting into the sudden brightness. He could make out the silhouette of a tall figure in the doorway of what seemed a ridiculously big bathroom, though he’d never encountered one so large. “Yes, of course you are. Second year, I’d say, though I don’t like guessing. I suppose you’ll do.” The shadow muttered quickly before disappearing, not giving John a chance to speak. The blonde shook his head in slight disbelief and stepped towards the open door, seeing as there wasn’t much else he could do.

 

The room was indeed an incredibly large bathroom and the shadow turned out to be a tall and slim teen who was leaning against the sink nonchalantly, smoking and apparently completely oblivious to the unconscious boy sprawled over the toilet.

 

“Christ, what happened?” John sobered up somewhat at the sight of the injured boy and was kneeling next to him in a flash, his fingers at his neck, swiftly finding his pulse. It was even, but quick and shallow. He brushed sweaty strands of dark blond hair out of the boy’s eyes and tried to shift him into the recovery position with his head turned to one side so he wouldn’t choke if he threw up, but the boy seemed to recover somewhat at that and clung to the toilet weakly, letting out a strangled groan.

 

The tall teen sighed, looking beyond bored, and took another drag of his fag. “Overdose, obviously.” He said after having puffed out all the smoke. “It’s hardly the first time.”

 

John gaped at him, his mind still a bit slow due to the generous amounts of alcohol he’d consumed. “Excuse me? Your friend here overdoses, it’s not even the first time, and you just…” he gestured vaguely at the brunette with one hand, the other steady on the blonde’s throat to keep track of his pulse.

 

“He’s not my friend.” The boy shrugged, flicking the cigarette to the ground and crushing it out against the floor tiles.

 

“Oh, right, cheers. He’s not my friend either! How about we just leave him to die, yeah, since we’re not his friends?”

 

The boy sighed and looked up at the ceiling as if he were faced with the stupidest and lowest of life forms. “I’d rather not, it would be incredibly messy to explain two deaths to the police in one day.”

 

John’s eyes widened and fear pooled deep in his gut. His chest felt tight, as if his lungs were frozen and it would spread to the rest of his body if he were to breathe in deeply. “E-excuse me?” he asked, his voice sounding shrill to his own ears.

 

The other boy grinned wickedly. “Daddy dearest died this morning. Why else would I be throwing a party?”

 

***

 

“Your father...” John said slowly, processing what the brunette had said.

 

“Yes.” The teen answered, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

 

“He… died today…” the blonde couldn’t understand the casual ease the boy was displaying after sharing his news. Had he been faced with the same scenario, John was certain he’d be cowering in a corner, miserable.

 

“Yes.” the tall teen nodded, studying the smoke he was puffing out slowly, as if the small clouds were endlessly interesting.

 

“This morning…”

 

“Must you state the obvious?” The boy sighed and looked up at the ceiling as if asking for patience. He rummaged in the pocket of his ridiculously skinny and battered jeans and removed an equally battered packet of cigarettes, lighting one despite the fact that the smoke hadn’t yet fully cleared from the first. John reminded himself to close his mouth. His head was swimming and he didn’t know whether it was down to the booze or because of what the mysterious teen had said.

 

“Before you ask, no, I did not kill him.” John was startled for a moment and frowned. “I didn’t…”

 

“No, but you were about to.” He took another drag and tipped his head back to exhale, smoke curling towards the ceiling as he began to speak again. “It was the most obvious conclusion to draw. My demeanour suggests my obvious dislike for my father and it’s already been made evident that I care little for the longevity of the general public –though it can be rather inconvenient, I’ve found.” He paused, looking at John, his eyes meeting the blonde’s for the first time since the conversation started. “So you concluded that I caused his death –though you hadn’t yet voiced this assumption. You shouldn’t assume. What kind of person celebrates a murder with a house party? Far too obvious. Had I killed him, I’d be avoiding detection, not telling strangers and welcoming them into my home.”

 

John raised his eyebrows. He had barely followed all that, he couldn’t even imagine coming up with it. Perhaps if he hadn’t been drunk… “Look, I wasn’t thinking... that.” He muttered, just when the nearly unconscious boy next to him gave a weak moan and clutched the toilet tightly, throwing up violently into it. John held him up, nose wrinkling at the foul smell. When he’d stopped heaving, John sighed and shifted the boy until he was laying on the floor on his side, in the safety position. The teen’s eyes were shut again, but he seemed to be sleeping rather than unconscious, and John checked his pulse again; it was slowing down to a somewhat normal rate again. “He’ll be fine.” He announced, standing up.

 

The boy nodded, taking another drag of his fag. John stepped in his direction to wash his hands in the sink. Now that he was closer, he could see that the boy was at least a couple of years younger than him, despite being so bloody tall and almost worryingly thin. His striking features were framed by an unruly mop of dark curls that accentuated the high cheekbones casting shadows over his face. Under the long fringe, John could make out clear grey eyes, rimmed heavily with eyeliner. He dried his hands with a towel, licking his lips unconsciously as the boy took another drag. He’d suddenly noticed how the teen’s mouth was almost a perfect heart with a pronounced cupid’s bow.

 

John cleared his throat awkwardly, realising he’d been staring at the tall, dark stranger. “Well…”

 

“I suppose I should thank you…” the brunette said, and John could see something like the beginning of a smile tugging at the left corner of his mouth.

 

“John. John Watson.” He smiled, offering a hand.

 

“Sherlock Holmes.” The other boy said, shaking it briefly. He flicked the butt of his cigarette to the floor and walked towards the door, nodding at the blonde before exiting the bathroom.

 

John stared at the door long after it closed until a groan next to him forced him to return to reality. “Right.” He sighed, kneeling next to the boy. “Up you go.” He muttered, holding him up through the next wave of nausea. He wondered why it was always him that ended up in such situations.

 

***

 

John awoke the next morning feeling like he had a dead rat in his mouth. His tongue was dry and he needed a glass of water badly. However the mere thought of even moving a finger made him want to curl up and hide under the covers, let alone the idea of walking into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water or make a cuppa of much needed tea. He turned his head to the side to look at the clock on his bedside table before he realised what a terrible mistake it had been: there seemed to be a huge lead ball inside his skull which rolled painfully whenever he moved his head, making him wince. He opened his eyes carefully, but the numbers of the clock were blurry and the little light that got past his eyelashes was unbearable, so he closed his eyes again. He needed to relieve his bladder badly, but he wouldn’t be able to stand up without throwing up… or dying, the latter of which seemed much more likely to him. How the hell did Harry do this every day?

 

His bladder finally won the battle and John got to his feet somehow, stumbling towards the bathroom. His legs seemed to be made of jelly, and he winced when he stubbed his toe against the corner of the doorframe; he was too hungover to scream and curse like he wanted to and so resorted to silent scowling. He decided against turning the lights on in the bathroom and brushed his teeth after using the toilet, but the taste of dead rat didn’t go away entirely, so he sipped a bit of water. Part of his mind –the one that wasn’t squashed under the lead ball rolling around inside his head– told him that the headache was due to dehydration, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to stomach a full glass, not yet.

 

He staggered back to the bed and eased himself down upon it, giving a soft sigh of relief at the comfort of the mattress. He curled up on his side and reached for his phone, thanking his drunken self for having plugged it in before crashing the night before, and squinted at the sudden brightness of the screen. It was shy of noon, so he decided to sleep in as much as he wanted. The day was pretty much already wasted after all, no use pushing himself when his head felt like it would explode any moment. He vaguely remembered he had been planning to work on his lab report, but he smothered the thought as soon as his head hit the pillow and he closed his eyes, surrendering to slumber.

 

***

 

A drill woke him up and he covered his ears with his pillow, trying to muffle the sound. Since when was the flat under construction? He was ready to stand up and shout abuse at he workers when he realised it wasn’t a drill, but his phone vibrating on the bedside table. He let out a small groan as he reached for it, blinking a few times to get the screen into focus. He had several new messages. Well, that would explain the incessant buzzing.

 

_What happened to your shoulder? SH_

_I’d say car accident. SH_

_But as I said yesterday, I dislike guessing. SH_

_Does the limp come from that, too? SH_

_It seems older though. SH_

_Sebastian insists I thank you. SH_

_He didn’t die, obviously. SH_

_Is there any reason why you’re not answering me? SH_

The farther John scrolled down his screen, the higher his eyebrows rose. He had no idea who these ‘SH’ and ‘Sebastian’ were, but they seemed to know him pretty well. He didn’t recall talking to anyone about the accident though; he just wasn’t the type to whine about his past to get shagged out of pity. He didn’t remember having sex with anyone either, so no conversations would have come from seeing his scar.

 

_A good reason, I mean. Don’t be dull. SH_

Right. John had had about enough of his mysterious “SH”. Honestly, they sounded like a right prick.

 

_Who is this? JW_

The reply was almost instantaneous.

 

_Dull. SH_

_Excuse me? JW_

John stared at the screen for a few minutes, long after it had gone dark to save battery, but “SH” never answered back. Eventually, he fell asleep again with the phone clutched in his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm not dead! Neither is this story! :)
> 
> This is still a draft, but I needed to post it for several reasons. If you want to know them, go to my end notes.
> 
> As always, English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry for any mistakes (especially because my beta hasn't had a chance to review this yet). And obviously the characters don't belong to me.

The even footsteps muffled by the expensive carpet were all too familiar, if a bit heavier than usual (ah, rejoice in yet another dieting failure); he fancied he almost hadn’t recognised them for a moment. Still, after last night’s excesses at the party - _his_ party-, the sound seemed to be much louder, nearly deafening, and it appeared to be dancing a tango with the pounding inside his head. He could picture the perfectly polished oxford shoes (shiny, black leather, half brogues. As if his infuriating brother would choose something as ostentatious and ‘new rich’ as full brogues. He considered wearing a pair of them for a second, decorating them even more with studs, just to annoy him) stepping onto the rich floral pattern until the man was standing behind him, still taller than him, much to his dismay. Sherlock spoke in a cold, yet slightly croaky, voice before his brother got a chance to even greet him.

 

“Go away.”

 

Sherlock knew it was impossible to hear his brother raising an eyebrow, but he drew the bow across the strings of his violin to cover the nonexistent sound anyway (and if he had one string slightly out of tune, that was just to make his brother leave as soon as humanly possible. Mycroft didn’t go well with Sherlock’s hangovers, and he was definitely feeling this one). It was bad enough that he could see it in the reflection of the window in front of him, the condescending and patronising expression and his hatefully immaculate outfit. Black pinstriped three-piece suit, perfectly pressed, perfectly dull, and a black coat with subtle burgundy lining. He eyed his brother’s coat with a pang of quickly suppressed envy, wishing he had one similar. He noted with satisfaction that the bottom button of his waistcoat was undone and he suspected spitefully that had more to do with too many biscuits at teatime than with the custom started by King Edward VII (although he could not completely out rule that possibility, knowing how his brother lived in a delusion of grandeur for the moment).

 

“Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft spoke quietly, lifting a leather clad (black, _of course_ ) finger and tapping once on the handle of his ever present umbrella (probably Fox’s, the posh git), the closest thing to a nervous tick his brother had. Sherlock took a moment to more carefully observe the bloody contraption: Malacca wood, like a swordstick, perhaps it hid a concealed blade. Useful, but it was unlikely his brother would use it as such; Mycroft had never been one for fencing, or moving in general.

 

“I’m not going.”

 

Sherlock looked past his brother’s reflection into the garden as he spoke. The shades of green combined in his mind to form a bed of grass and moss, and he wished he could let himself fall into it, let the comforting plants absorb the impact and envelop him in softness, muffling out the world. He closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again.

 

“I won’t go to the reading of the will either.”

Sherlock knew his brother would take care of it, that he would make sure he got his part. After all, it wouldn’t be _proper_ to keep both his share and Sherlock’s. Not when the vultures in his family might notice. Sherlock would get his money, his hateful, hateful father’s money, and then he’d spend it as he pleased. He was merely saving himself an unnecessary, dull transaction.

 

Mycroft heaved a sigh behind him, brows furrowing minutely. Surely he must know how little Sherlock cared and the facade was unbearably irritating. What was the point of attending the funeral anyway? He did not care for afterlife (he doubted its existence, and would deny it until scientifically proven otherwise) or religion (a fool’s consolation). He found the social conventions his brother was so fond of irrelevant, and he definitely had no qualms in voicing his views as loudly as possible (all the better if they were rude and controversial –particularly if his aunt Myrtle heard them and stopped nagging him about what was polite or which _young, delightful_ girls were suitable for him). The ritual of funeral was complete nonsense to him, why should he endure it for a man who hadn’t looked twice in his direction? Why should he be miserable and bored when he could call Victor and have his blood singing in less than half an hour? Oh, and how it sang. It was like having Schubert’s Death and the Maiden quartet running through his veins.

 

Mycroft turned on his heel and began walking out of the room, knowing a lost cause when he saw one. Sherlock could read the disappointment in the line of his shoulders and he felt anger bubbling up inside him. What did his brother care? Why keep up the (so very stupid, superfluous and irritating) pretences in front of him? Perfect Mycroft, always worrying about appearances, how very proper. Just before his brother disappeared, Sherlock spoke up again.

 

“My condolences on the loss of your father.”

  


***

 

Sunset was cruelly beautiful; the sun, tinted in blood, painted long shadows on the pavement. He moved quickly, blending in with the city, footsteps quiet amidst the traffic noise, only stopping once to light a cigarette. He reached his destination before it had burned out completely, so he waited outside, smoking.

 

The building was the definition of unassuming. Sherlock took a drag of his fag as he waited on the stairs outside, the flickering sound of it burning his only company. He watched as the tip glowed bright orange before lifting it from his lips, holding the air in his lungs until his chest felt tight, then letting it go slowly, smoke swirling towards the London sky. He smoked unhurriedly, fancying he could feel the nicotine getting absorbed by his system, like Mummy’s linen table cloth would do with spilt red wine. Finally, he knocked on the white door of the brick house. He had to wait several minutes until someone opened it.

 

“Well, well, look who it is. Back here already?”

 

Sherlock glared at the boy and ignored the comment. Victor was leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, ankles and arms crossed, head tilted slightly, exposing his long neck. Sherlock could still see the traces of last night on him, on the bites and bruises his collar failed to hide, on the bags under his eyes, on how he squinted even at the dim light of dusk. Of course he’d know even without observing; he’d put those marks there. He made his way inside past the tall, lanky ginger and headed straight towards the door to the studio.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

The boy stopped at Victor’s voice and turned around to face him again, raising an eyebrow quizzically. It was as much of a ‘what’ as the ginger was going to get.

 

“Right. Where are you going?”

 

Sherlock heaved a sigh; he had been hoping to be regaled with a more interesting question and not the painfully obvious one. Really, why he was _acquaintances_ with such idiots was beyond him sometimes.

 

“Really, Victor, where do you think I’m going?” he drawled.

 

The ginger frowned, trying to think of a come back, but he stopped abruptly and looked at Sherlock again, surprised. He knew better than to ask the astonished ‘really’ that was on the tip of his tongue. A grin spread upon his face as understanding dawned on him and he stepped towards Sherlock, his movements almost predatory now.

 

“I see. And I suppose you want me to do it?” Victor asked, masking his awe with smugness.

 

“Yes. Obviously.” Sherlock held his gaze, green eyes battling with grey ones. Neither looked away. Victor leaned in until his breath caressed the other’s cheek.

 

“I don’t do it for free.” he whispered.

 

“Liar.” Sherlock muttered. It was loud enough. They both knew it anyway; they had been playing this part of the game for years. He was dying for a distraction (that med student had proved to be utterly dull via text earlier that day), for his brain to shut up, and Victor was nothing if not a good provider. “But who says I’m not willing to... pay, anyway?” he practically purred.

 

Victor’s eyes glinted and he chuckled before crushing his thin lips against Sherlock’s full ones.

 

***

 

Sherlock moaned as he was backed up against the wall, Victor assaulting his lips, kissing with bruising force. He panted, throwing his head back when Victor broke off for air. The ginger took the hint and moved towards his neck, nudging his knee between Sherlock’s thighs and pressing up slightly. Sherlock wasn’t hard yet and it was a bit uncomfortable, so he pushed Victor off of himself and took a step towards the stairs.

 

“Your room.” Sherlock said tightly.

 

The older boy nodded and climbed up the stairs quickly, two at a time. Sherlock watched him, leaning against the wall for a moment to catch his breath, before following him. By the time he entered the room, Victor was already waiting for him, sitting on the bed. He had shed his shirt already, tossed it carelessly to one corner of the room, and held a small bag of white powder in his right hand. Sherlock’s eyes followed the movement of Victor’s fingers as he opened the bag and dipped one slender digit into the drug before lifting it to his mouth and smearing the substance across his gums. Sherlock was on him in a second, kissing him with hard as he pushed his tongue into the other’s mouth, trying to capture all the traces of his beloved cocaine. He heard Victor chuckle when he pulled back, but it quickly turned into a breathy moan when Sherlock moved his hand down across his naked chest and rolled one nipple between his fingers lightly. He leaned back in until their lips were only brushing, smiling smugly before dipping his tongue back into Victor’s mouth in a series of quick, filthy kisses.

  


“Take off your clothes.” Victor panted between kisses, already pushing Sherlock’s leather jacket down his shoulders. It got caught at the elbows, holding the brunette’s forearms by his sides. Victor smiled and reversed their positions, straddling Sherlock’s lap. He undid the tight buttons of his shirt quickly and pushed it down the boy’s slender arms, chasing the path of the leather. Sherlock leant up to capture Victor’s mouth again, but all evidence of the drug was gone and he growled in frustration. He could feel the beginnings of a tiny rush, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Victor tutted and teasingly licked his finger before dipping it into the bag again. This time he brought it to Sherlock’s mouth.

 

“Suck.” he commanded. Sherlock opened his mouth and licked up Victor’s finger before closing his lips around it and sucking. His eyes fluttered closed as he swirled his tongue around the digit, collecting all the cocaine he could as Victor pumped the finger in and out of his mouth. He moaned softly, feeling his cock finally begin to harden in his tight jeans. Victor noticed it too and ground his hips down onto Sherlock’s lap, making him groan.

 

Victor withdrew his finger from Sherlock’s mouth with a wet sound as he began nibbling along the brunette’s jaw and down his neck. Sherlock gasped when he felt the slick digit rub one of his nipples until it hardened before moving onto the other one, shivering at the cool air against the wet, sensitive skin.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes at the clicking sound of a camera and he glared at Victor, who was holding his Canon in one hand, smiling innocently.

 

“I couldn’t help it, darling.” the ginger purred, leaning back on Sherlock’s lap to take another picture. “You are just irresistible.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and wished his hands were free to wrestle the camera away from Victor, and he struggled against the improvised bonds, making the older boy chuckle.

 

“My Sherlock, so feisty…” he murmured fondly, pushing a hand into the brunette’s curls and tugging at the hair slightly. Sherlock tilted his head back, closing his eyes, and moaned when Victor tightened his grip a bit until it bordered on painful. He heard the camera going off again, but he didn’t care, his blood was beginning to sing and it was glorious.

 

He felt Victor’s weight disappear off his lap and the hand in his hair moved to the back of his neck, pushing him forward until he was sitting at the edge of the bed. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at Victor as the boy stood in front of him and undid his flies with one hand, pulling his erection out. He gave himself a few languid strokes, pushing the foreskin over the head and then pulling it back to expose the glans. Sherlock could see the beads of pre-come leaking down the slit and he leaned forward to capture them with his tongue, smiling cockily at the moan it drew from Victor. He dipped his tongue into the slit before closing his lips around the head and sucking softly. Slowly, he inched forward, Victor’s prick heavy on his tongue, velvety skin against the roof of his mouth. Sherlock began bobbing his head, taking a bit more of Victor’s cock into his mouth every time. He looked up at the ginger and was pleased to see the camera lay now on the bed, forgotten, as the boy lost himself in the pleasure of his hot, wet mouth. Soon both of Victor’s hands were in Sherlock’s curls, controlling the movements of his head as the boy fucked his mouth. Sherlock moaned around him, sucking sloppily, saliva dripping down his chin.

 

“Fuck, your mouth.” Victor groaned, looking down at his slick cock as it disappeared between the heart-shaped lips. He traced them with a finger before pushing it in alongside with his erection, stretching Sherlock’s mouth wider. “Oh, shit, fuck. I’m… oh _God_ _fuck_!” he cursed.

 

Sherlock could feel Victor’s prick getting hotter and thicker in his mouth, and the hand in his hair clenched, tugging at his curls harder. He swallowed around him, closing his eyes again as he moaned, and that pushed Victor over the edge. He pushed himself into Sherlock’s mouth, pressing the boy’s head against his stomach as his body curled around him and he emptied himself down his throat, hips stuttering to draw out his orgasm.

 

Sherlock swallowed everything greedily, licking Victor clean until the boy became too sensitive and pulled out of his mouth. He slumped on the bed beside Sherlock and they both panted, trying to catch their breath.

 

Victor was the first to move. He tucked himself in, did his flies up, and ran a hand through his ginger hair before reaching for the top drawer of his bedside table. He took out a disposable syringe, a vial with clear liquid, and a belt. Sherlock eyed the items hungrily and shifted on the bed until he was sitting with his back towards Victor.

 

“Unbind me.” he said, voice rough from the abuse of his throat.

 

He felt a tender kiss between his shoulder blades and he shivered as deft hands pulled his arms free of the jacket and shirt. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned around to kiss Victor, pressing his neglected erection against the boy’s thigh as he straddled it. Victor chuckled softly and cupped Sherlock’s crotch, palming it through his jeans as his other hand ghosted down his back. He pushed it past the waistband and into Sherlock’s pants, squeezing one of his arse cheeks, as Sherlock’s grinding grew quicker and soft whimpers escaped his mouth.

 

Victor withdrew both hands, earning a low whine of protest from Sherlock, and tied the belt around the brunette’s arm. He uncapped and loaded the syringe as he watched the veins grow darker while Sherlock rutted against him, his movements becoming sharper. Finally he held Sherlock’s arm steady and pushed the needle into his body, slowly mixing the solution with the genius’ blood.

 

Sherlock leaned forward, resting his head on Victor’s shoulder. He could feel the drug spreading through his system, lighting him up like a Christmas tree. His veins and arteries were now aglow, mapping his body, and his brain was blessedly silent, enveloped in the bright light. He was vaguely conscious of someone opening his flies and pumping his length, stroking him to completion as the last of the drug entered his system.

 

 

Everything was so beautifully clear. Sherlock’s brain worked at double, no, _triple_ its usual speed, but nothing was overwhelming. Everything had its order, its place. He closed his eyes, feeling Victor strip him down to his underwear and clean them both up. The rough touch of his jeans, the softness of the tissue... It all blended beautifully, his synapses and neuronal connections absorbing the feelings. Sherlock could almost see the information travelling like a spark from his sensitive skin through the nerves. It was beautiful. Breathtaking. He laughed, utterly happy and content, and flopped down onto his stomach on the soft bed. Energy sizzled through his veins and he closed his eyes again.

 

In the distance, he heard the camera going off again. It seemed as if it came through a tunnel behind his eyelids, he could see the waves of the sound, travelling through the air until they made their way into his ear, and then ultimately his nerves and brain. It was another spark, like touch, but a different colour. Everything was colourful and luminous in its own way. He himself was shining. He giggled to himself. Could Victor see it? Would this light be reflected in the pictures?

 

He propped himself up on his hands and stretched lazily, spine curving like a cat’s, feeling his muscles stretch deliciously. He could see those too, lighting up as he used them: _extensor carpi, brachioradialis, biceps, suprasinatus, trapezius, latissimus dorsi_... He looked at Victor over his shoulder before jumping off the bed and all but running towards him.

 

“Now. I want it now.” Sherlock smiled, kissing the corner of Victor’s mouth before disappearing down the stairs in a flurry of limbs and energy. He heard the ginger laugh in the distance, the rich tones making him shudder and laugh in response.

He entered the studio and straddled the plush black chair, hugging it with his wiry arms. The soft padded leather felt like a bed of feathers beneath him, except it was _nothing_ like feathers. No, feathers were altogether different, the way they would feel on his naked skin would be completely unique. He would be able to tell whether it was leather or feathers. Obviously. But his mind had inaccurately and at the same time perfectly compared the two. The paradox between nonsense and perfect sense made him snigger.

 

“What are you laughing about?” Victor asked next to him.

Sherlock jumped slightly. He hadn’t noticed the boy coming in, but then again, being surprised was so delicious. Victor was sitting on a stool, needles in place on a table beside him. He leaned in to clean Sherlock’s skin, swabbing alcohol over the smooth planes of his back.

 

“Feathers.” Sherlock breathed, shivering slightly at the cold touch. He could smell sex on the ginger’s skin, although it was quickly overpowered by the alcohol. It was brilliant nevertheless.

 

“Hm, yes, that’s precisely what I was thinking too.” Victor hummed, taking a marker in his hand. The ink was added seamlessly to the smells, making it a heady combination. Sherlock shivered again, this time in anticipation.

 

The first touch of the marker was odd. His brain categorised it immediately, analysing the texture. It was wet, but it dried quickly, leaving a feeling of tautness on his skin. It tickled too, but pleasantly so. It was like the softest caress of lips. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to decipher the drawing, but the nerves of his back seemed keener on the sensation than on the puzzle. Another surprise. Brilliant. Simply brilliant. Sherlock giggled again.

 

“Stop moving!” Victor scolded, slapping the other boy’s bum playfully.

“It tickles” Sherlock protested, squirming. He tried his best to stay quiet after that though, his brain having another sensation to catalogue. The slight stinging on his rear. It hadn’t been a hard slap, but the feeling of it lingered on his skin. It was thrilling, but _why_? It seemed Victor had regaled him with yet another puzzle. He was on fire.

 

Time was relative. Sherlock prided himself on having control over it, conscience. The marker against his skin, the soft touch, Victor’s breath on his ear and neck and back, the electric lights of the studio... It all muddled his senses, made him lose track of time. Sherlock entered a limbo, a perfect space where it didn’t matter. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, when Victor lifted the marker for the last time and closed it, setting it on the table with a metallic sound and Sherlock snapped out of it.

“Are you ready?” Victor asked, hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. It was a grounding touch, warm against his chilled skin.

 

If anyone had ever asked him such an obvious question while sober –or worse, crashing- Sherlock would have snapped at them. As it was, in the ecstatic state he found himself, light running through his veins, he merely nodded. Victor got the needles and ink ready and started the machine. The sound of the engine set a pool of excitement in Sherlock’s stomach and it made him lightheaded. _Adrenaline_ , he thought. But it was fleeting, for Victor pressed the needle against his skin and he felt a rush of _hot burning piercing lingering delicious tingling_ pain, overpowering the rest of his synapses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed to post this because I've had this whole story planned out (and a sequel) for months. I'm just having a lot of troubles writing it. And this chapter has been sitting in my laptop for months. I needed to get it out, even if it isn't quite perfect yet. If you are confused in some parts, please don't hesitate to ask and I'll try to clear up any confusion and headcanons while trying not to give away the rest of the story. I'll go back and edit as soon as my beta gets back to me, but she's very busy at the moment.
> 
> But mostly I needed to post it because of what happened at the Sherlock screening. I am a fanfic author. I write slash and AUs and I love it. I love reading them too. I also draw explicit pictures and if I knew a way to compose racy music, I'd find way because it's my liberty to do so.  
> I love the books, the actual canon. And I also love the show, which is a modern AU if you think about it. I hurt no one with my fanfic, no fanfic author does.  
> People need to stop mocking us and begin to think why it is so "ridiculous and embarrassing" to have queer characters as the lead roles in an adaptation of someone else's work, which, again, is what BBC Sherlock is. Or female leads. Or POC.  
> People also need to understand the difference between johnlock fanfiction and RPFs. We write about Sherlock and John, not Benedict and Martin. And even then, we are aware fiction and reality are not the same thing.  
> Of course we all know there is a "bad side of the fandom", who harass actors and staff and all that. They are a minority. We don't like them. End of.  
> I have read amazing fanfictions, seen truly inspiring works of art. I cannot believe the amount of talent and effort in this fandom, the dedication. It's breathtaking. So pleasse stop trying to hurt us, to make us feel ashamed of what we love.
> 
> I am a fangirl, and I am proud. So here, have some explicit porn. I hope you like it. And if you don't, you can either look away and not read it or choke on the -if I may say so myself- fucking delicious blowjob I just described.
> 
> (I'll gladly continue this conversation over on my tumblr, if you want. It's sherlockintheshire.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fuckyeahteenlock punklock contest.
> 
> EDIT: so somehow I won 3rd place wooohoooooo!!! :D you can find the lovely cover and reviews here http://fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr.com/post/47207935409/3rd-place-winner-rebel-rebel-by-nat-scribbles


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